Death Not Wrought By These Hands: A Kirkwall Novella
by Apollo Wings
Summary: A apostate can scrub a life in the City of Chains somehow right? Kenrick Hawke somehow manages to get by... Updates every Friday (GMT) until complete. Rated T for language not suitable for little eyes. Slight AU but not too much so.


Author note: It's a slightly angsty story - but I like my angst. Not necessarily now but later a lot.

Read this novella that's been split into shorter chapters within and get swept away. Hopefully you'll get too engrossed to see the AU angst coming. For a point of reference - The background for The Warden/s - is as such:

Iorwen Amell became the Hero for slaughtering the Archdemon and the Commander for that. But really the leader had always been Arthur Cousland in their Warden group. Who became King alongside Anora and unable to be the leader any more due to royal duties.

Hael Surana died in the Joining, he was mourned briefly like Daveth and Jory. Larena Mahariel was the Constable (second in command) post-Blight and pre-Awakenings, she never was a leader but was strong enough in case the person acting as leader did fall. She nominated Iorwen as the Commander after the mage killed the Archdemon and survived - how the Dalish elf didn't know.

Sinnoch Aeducan disappeared shortly after the Blight. The former-prince of Orzammar most likely chasing after a witch according to rumour. The truth will never be known. Griff Brosca died in the Battle of Denerim, leaving a very sad assassin to mourn him.

Roderick Gilmore (Ser Gilmore) was also recruited and survived the Joining. (note no Tabris mentioned...)

Mages saved, Dalish sided with (curing Lycanthropy via Zathrian's death), Bhelen as King and preserved Anvil. Loghain recruited and not sent to Orlais (bloody stupid that was). Alistair exiled!

Nathaniel Howe recruited, as were Sigrun and Oghren, Velanna was not (I never recruited her). Anders disappeared shortly after going into the Deep Roads for the first time, with the walking corpse of Justice who thought it would be justice to Kristoff that the spirit would 'die' in a semi-Calling stylised plan. Iorwen was suspicious but a body wearing his robes was found a few months later on a patrol. They gave him a nice funeral.

Amaranthine and Vigil's Keep saved (they had enough Wardens with the smattering of OCs I just popped into this scenario). Architect slaughtered like a pig.

UPDATES WEEKLY ON FRIDAYS! (Originally written to try and make** Hatsepsut** cry. I will do it I swear!)

* * *

**Prologue**

He'd always been close to those he loved. Standing at six foot and still dwarfed by his younger brother by the time Carver was eighteen and in the Kings Army. His nose had been broken at a young age so it was bent with a lump in the middle. It was still the sort of nose you could plough fields with though. His eyes weren't that endless blue like his brother or mother. More a 'soulful' brown and slightly encircled by black bags, like his father and Bethany except Bethany never had those bags. It was strange how those eyes were the way they knew that they were different to mother and Carver. That they were all mages.

He walked with an air that demanded attention he never asked for - refused even.

He cracked his knuckles when he was upset, or angry, or nervous. Sometimes when he was happy. It pissed people off endlessly.

Kenrick Hawke had been many things in his life. He'd been a refugee from the Blight, an apostate in the City of Chains who'd never had the templars dare knock on his door. He'd built a world of power around him like a webbed cocoon and kept his watch over that webbing, making sure that the silvery threads of his life hadn't been unravelled.

He'd been the Champion of that city, slaying the Qunari giant of the Arishok with a mixture of subtle magic and knowing how to cleave a man's head off.

Now, he felt like nothing. He cracked his knuckles.

* * *

**Chapter One - Dragon 9:30 Wintermarch to Haring**

That first year in Kirkwall was hard, working as a smuggler for Athenril with Carver grousing every step of the way as his apostate brother took every damned job to put bread, cabbage and the occasional bit of bacon cuttings or fish on the table to liven up the week's pottage mother scrimped in Gamlen's vile hovel. It'd been very hard. One was assured tough living when you carried items or money worth more than your life on a daily basis and it meant one didn't stiff their employer.

He was sure mother blamed him solely for Bethany's death. His hesitancy when it came to killing with magic being the reason his sweet younger sister hadn't faltered when faced with an Ogre, knew she'd end up taking that burden and dying for it on their escape from Lothering.

The words of his father rang in his ears too often to have them drowned even during a situation where life or death meant anything. _These hands are not meant to kill Kenrick. Magic isn't a curse but a gift and the most precious gift every given was life. Never use your gift to kill. Kill if it becomes necessary but never with your magic son. Don't expose yourself as an apostate but train with your younger brother to wield a sword as any mundane._

Kenrick took to carrying a longsword at his hip from that moment on or a hatchet as point he could be lethal - would not falter should the need arise to kill. He never left it behind. How he wished to bury it one day. Still, he'd managed to try to be diplomatic in his dealings with the undercity, keeping himself impeccably clean of the grime that passed through his hands on a daily basis.

Carver had wanted to work for the Red Irons. He could've. Kenrick wouldn't have stopped him one iota. But working as an assassin, for better use of the word, as an apostate invited men clad in chain and plate wishing to imprison him for the grand crime of being born. Templars would take him into the circle and stories of what horrors awaited within were not worth even contemplating that.

Mother thought it was all too shady to deal with and those terse silences over breakfast of weak porridge more gruel than sustaining where more aimed at the elder Hawke sibling in the hovel. It was still his fault that Bethany, the mage that could wield fire and ice like mere extensions of her arms and blow a man off his feet with a sweep of her fingers and the correct intentions mixed with muttered Tevene had protected mother from a gruesome death with her own life.

That the survivors of that flight from Lothering would be dredged through waves of human misery once they reached the fabled city mother had grown up in as a young genteel was something his younger sister in some respects was lucky not to be exposed to. The gates had been barred from all refugees.

Who better to try and force the issue than an apostate, a deserter from the Lothering Irregulars and their mother accompanied by Ser Aveline Vallen - part of King Cailan's honour guard that had obviously and odiously failed in their protection of the King at Ostagar and fled. Not that the woman hadn't paid for that quite harshly with her templar husband having been tainted by the time the two groups, Hawke and Vallen had met in the outskirts of Lothering in their joint escapes. He'd died without any other choice being viable to save the man. Kenrick couldn't bring himself to cry over it but he felt vaguely sorry for a woman who lost her husband. So make that an apostate, a middle-aged woman and two deserters, one that was actually only eighteen and the other a recent widow.

So they'd waited in the throngs of people back then, hoping against hope that mother's brother. Gamlen Amell - would hold the key for those gates and let them in. Three days had passed in a blur of hunger and water being begrudgingly brought out by the city guardsmen.

Then Gamlen, Uncle Gamlen had arrived like a rat dragged through sewers with the news that he would never have the coin to grease their way into the city. But had friends that did. Friends being either an elf with an attitude problem that smuggled thousands of sovereigns, lyrium and items of import through the city or a slick-haired man with wicked crossed swords that would've had them as thugs, assassins for hire.

They chose, or rather - Kenrick chose to not expose his magic and work for the elf. Athenril. Aveline and Carver had been grumpy sods about it but in all honesty he didn't care any more. Together they'd make an attractive offer to Meeran and become mercenary killers if they wanted. He wouldn't stop them but he wasn't going for it himself.

But Kenrick wouldn't make himself a killer, a murderer. It wasn't who he was and if that meant turning tail and begging his way to Tevinter to be a free mage then so be it. They could do without him holding the fragile bonds that held them together.

* * *

He'd learnt a lot within Athenril's smuggling ring. Having always been drawn to the chaotic nature of Entropic magic had been a blessing for so many jobs. Make the guards on the shipment fall asleep, cover them in booze and plant an attractive young woman pretending she'd spent the night with them but saying she didn't see anything happen or tell if and who she'd slept with was perfect for secrecy.

Aveline had been long gone by that time. Managed to blag a way into the city guard on her credentials from Ostagar that had been muddled up since that fateful time. The Grey Wardens had been blamed for that fiasco that ended in the King's death so she was in the clear.

He killed. Kenrick had killed when a job had gone awry. But he left it mainly to those he worked with, kept their attackers from fighting back by dazing and hexing them into confusion, nightmares and sleep. But the sword or hatchet on his hip had been bloodied a few times. He wouldn't kill with magic. He didn't have it in him to kill something that thought and felt like he could. No animals, no humans, elves, dwarves, qunari. He would not kill with magic if it killed him.

It was on one horrid night, enough lyrium to drown a templar in his pack to transport to the docks they'd been jumped by padfoots. Carver got a dagger firmly under the ribs and was bleeding out too fast to move. Kenrick dealt with the three ruffians, hexed them to the Void before slitting their throats with the boot knife in well... his boot.

He'd knelt down and pressed his hand against the flesh next to the dagger, cursing the Maker and Andraste if his younger brother failed to live and yanked the serrated edge from him. His hands erupted in blue light as if the intention alone were enough to heal the wound. Kenrick had shown latent abilities in healing.

He'd later disposed of the bodies in the docks for the fish to eat.

Carver had a scar he liked showing the ladies and Athenril got Kenrick books on healing. Spirit Healing.

It was the first time that night he'd been so aware of the denizens of the Fade in his dreams. All mages were - but this was like super-realisation of those denizens. The fox had padded through the hazed world and sat on his knee, an impish grin on the pale white furry face and offered him the power of Spirit Healing. He was wary - any demon could don any façade in the Fade to trick a stupid mage into blood magic and sharing their body.

The fox returned night after night until he'd asked simply to bestow a mere jot of healing knowledge to the apostate smuggler. It was after that, that Kenrick put his heart and soul into the healing arts. The fox followed his dreams like a guide against the nightmares he had over Bethany's death, of templars taking him. Athenril had her healer now and he had his fox.

The year of working for the elf had flown by surprisingly quickly after that, more healing and putting guardsmen to sleep passing in a blur until they'd paid back the debt owed for getting their sorry arses into Kirkwall. City of Chains.

* * *

**Chapter Two - Dragon 9:31 Justinian to Haring**

Of course, life couldn't always be so easy, being given a job and doing it without too much fear of templars or criminal punishments. They - or rather Kenrick had stayed on for another half year in Athenril's employ to help make ends meet while Carver tried to find legitimate work in the city. It was hard, being a Ferelden in a city of Marchers where your mere name was worth dirt or less and there were ten men ready to take the job for every one position available.

Carver tried. Maker he'd tried to get into the guard. He'd gone to every early morning exercise and drill for the recruits that may or may not got into the city guard. Kenrick really thought his younger brother would've managed to get in. When it'd turned out Aveline got him blacklisted. Blacklisted because of his work with Athenril. As if the Hawke brothers hadn't paid her way into the city too.

Carver blamed Kenrick for it. He would. Kenrick picked Athenril over Meeran and Aveline had obviously been more disposed to the vile slime-ball than the elf. So it was all his fault.

So Kenrick had to think of a way to have Carver make money and possibly remove his ties to Athenril in the process - so he could be squeaky clean and hopefully reverse that blacklisting. Carver had put his heart and soul on the line for honest work. He'd mildly hated Aveline from that moment on if truth be told but one couldn't strain the diplomatic relationships one had with someone in the guard who could turn a blind eye to word of a man waking up dazed and confused a few pounds of lyrium short on his shipment.

So the Deep Roads expedition had cropped up. A dwarf by the name of Bartrand Tethras of the Kirkwall Merchant's Guild wanted hirelings to travel with him, paid - to treasure hunt in the Deep Roads. That was pay and a small cut of what you found. That was worth putting themselves both on the line and as far as Kenrick knew - what happened in the Deep Roads stayed there, an apostate wouldn't find a single problem with consorting with dwarves.

Things never went easily though. Kenrick tried his famous 'Hawke Charm' - inherited from his father a young thing he'd known said. It was true in some ways. Malcolm Hawke had been a smooth talker when he wanted to be, to get the family out of trouble his father bend his back double and used his witty tongue to drag diamonds out of coal-dust. It didn't work and an understandably annoyed Carver and he left that dingy office into a bleak, grey day in Kirkwall Hightown, unseasonably rainy as of late for the summer month.

To get mugged. Of all the rotten luck that befell them, it'd been Kenrick's last wage from Athenril. The elf had noticed him cutting ties and just severed them completely, sending him on his merry way and out from under her protection with a little bonus in case he ever wanted to get back in the smuggling game because the templars would be hot on his heels if he wasn't careful.

They chased the rat bastard with the dagger for cutting leather pouch strings, only to find a suave dwarf, shaven and gorgeous chest-hair having pinned the thief with a well-timed crossbow bolt to a stone wall of all things. They caught up to see the dwarf get a good right hook on the thief's jaw and return their money to them like a good Samaritan rather than pocketing it for himself. Then he yanked the crossbow bolt out, twirled it in his fingers and snidely put it to the thief for him to hop it.

Which peaked Kenrick's interested tenfold and annoyed Carver with his suspicious mind. Kirkwall had changed his little brother more than the young warrior would have gladly admitted. It made him rather brash and with a permanent scowl etched on his face. It made the apostate curious though, Kirkwall didn't make sense in a lot of ways and dammit he'd become a cat - one day he was sure to be killed by curiosity.

So the elder Hawke introduced himself as such. Just Hawke - to sate that suspicious side of his brother to the one and only Varric Tethras. Brother to Bartrand.

Coincidences like that don't happen. They never do. Varric had in fact been late to charge in at the last moment and demand Bartrand take the two into his expedition but now the dwarf with the crossbow and rug of chest hair had a juicier idea. Become partners into the expedition instead. Bartrand had been foolish enough to say he was going to do it without having sufficient funds. And of course, as partners the brothers Hawke would get an equal split of the loot found as Varric and Bartrand themselves would have. Two pairs of brothers treasure hunting. The idea appealed to the fantasy-lover inside him.

Kenrick and Varric shook hands on the prompt-to agreement. Now it was just a case of having enough money to become partners in the expedition. Not an easy task but worthwhile if word on the treasure down there was true. He'd be able to get out of mother and Carver's hair - go to Tevinter and let them do what they would with Carver's share. Maybe move out of Gamlen's hovel for a start.

The words used were something along the lines of - "By the way, you like watching people when they're drunk right?"

"Kenrick, don't you dare. Public." Carver muttered, feeling arbitrary to the whole thing.

"Who doesn't?" Varric had grinned, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. "Have a knack for feeding ale to the masses?"

"Give me a dark alley, a sober man and a few seconds and you'll laugh your arse off then." Kenrick laughed.

Luck be had it they found a hapless burglar that evening that slipped down the trellis he was climbing because of a nasty sleep spell. He stumbled about and then fell on his face. Varric had indeed laughed his arse off and Carver grumbled. Kenrick just cracked his knuckles and grinned.

* * *

It'd been a gruelling, painstaking time collecting fifty sovereigns to get on board as partners on Bartrands expedition. An expedition that would be in just six months. Truly sweat and blood and a few tears.

First, Kenrick fulfilled the promise he'd made to an ancient witch. The witch Flemeth had helped them flee the Blight in Ferelden so he took her amulet to the Dalish encamped close to the city as per her one request for their lives.

He'd thought that would be the end of it. How wrong he was. They trekked a day up that mountain to the caves atop it. Accompanied by a delightful young Dalish mage called Merrill who wanted to live in Kirkwall rather than with her clan, who chattered intelligently and like a long lost sister by the time they reached the summit. Full of knowledge and that rigid pluck she'd need if she truly wanted to live in Kirkwall, he was quite happy with knowing her.

Until of course, the inevitable cut along her wrist to bring down the barrier atop the mountain so she could do this ritual on the amulet. He'd nearly grabbed the willowy elf by the still bleeding wrist and pushed her into the stone outcroppings. He'd told her just how stupid that was, how she was a waiting time-bomb for a demon to latch into her intelligent mind and have free reign in the world.

Merrill didn't listen, merely blushed prettily about being called intelligent and babbled about the demon being helpful in a tone that said 'I know what I'm doing so let me to it' - so he would. None of his beeswax but he'd keep a watchful eye on her just in case. Merrill was a person, not a thing he could control. He may not have been planning on staying in Kirkwall but he wouldn't have her carted off to the circle and given a magical and emotional lobotomy as a mercy for her life. Tranquil were creepy and that was that, husks of people because the templars deemed them not worth having a proper life.

Perhaps when he finally flew off to Tevinter he'd ask if Merrill wished to join him. It had to be safer than the City of Chains itself.

So he healed her wrist shut from bleeding and they did the ritual. Only to have Flemeth rise like a secret passenger out of the amulet, turn into a dragon but only after some spooky words about his future. His in particular like he was something special rather than just another apostate scrubbing his life out. Joy. He could swear everytime he cracked his knuckles Carver had winced just that bit more.

They took Merrill to the Alienage in Kirkwall, squalor for elves in Lowtown and not far from where they squatted with Uncle Gamlen or the Hanged Man pub where Varric had his residence. It was full of proud people though, the sort of elves that washed their porches until you'd be able to eat off them with their pride in what they did have, all basking in the paste painted Vhenadahl tree. The dirty shops and tenement housing all swept under it like under an enchantment. The elves of Kirkwall may have been swept under the rug and uncared for by the human lordlings that ruled but by no means did that mean they didn't have their own niche carved in the world.

Her trunk with all her worldly belongings was Blighted heavy. It tinkled a bit as it moved too.

He promised the pretty Dalish blood mage that was assured in herself and her abilities they'd be in touch when they could and Carver kissed her hand softly. Kenrick jabbed him in the scar under the ribs and said he was 'smooth' - Carver vowed revenge of the punching or drinking kind. Or the smiting kind.

Carver may not have been a mage but he was of mage blood. He'd been able to smite his elder brother and late twin since the age of eight. Evidently templar abilities were closer related to magic than previously thought. Not that Carver gave a rat's arse about it.

* * *

It was good they'd eaten a lot from the 'sausage-inna-bun' stand, sausages that were half bread and covered in fried onions and mustard. The Dalish had given them plenty of coin to get Merrill lodgings in the Alienage, more than enough when she'd gotten food supplies and the house so small you couldn't swing a cat. Merrill wanted to see Kirkwall by night and Carver couldn't refuse the girl who hadn't even remembered the kiss on her knuckles.

The Hanged Man was a wonderful wooden construct and fire-hazard. But Kenrick rubbed elbows with sailors off duty, mercenaries scarred over their faces and the odd drink could get bought for them for 'stopping Leith's brother from drowning in his own blood' or 'that good job two months back' - so it was a wonderful pub. Plus he was sure templars were scared to go into the rough and tumble establishment.

Stank to high heaven of vomit, piss and swill for ale but you found your hole and you sat as happy as a pig in shit in that hole. You don't let anyone else make fun of your hole.

But it was good they'd eaten because they met a lady pirate with fabulous... assets... without ship in need of help with a duel. Outside the Chantry. Kenrick swallowed his ale, nudged Carver and Varric - and Merrill too as they wouldn't leave the willowy elf alone in the pub. Off they trotted after Isabela, formerly captain of the Rivaini and buxom persuasion. Soon to be of the crude and lewd persuasion as they found out walking alongside the woman who swayed as she walked in boots that reached the tops of her thighs and a tunic posing as a dress.

The duel was re-arranged for inside the Chantry due to cheating. But one expected that with their tough luck. Money was money and Isabela could pay it. There were ways around all things if you squinted at the pieces to the puzzle closely enough.

Hayder went down like the sack of shit he was - slaving bastard. If someone could justify slavery then he or she was a sack of shit in his eyes and nothing more. Kenrick let Merrill disintegrate the man into ash with her formidable Elemental powers there on the floor before they actually swept him and his mercenaries with a bristly broom into a spare urn and labelled it 'unknown refugees' before they were out of there like their arses were on fire.

Isabela paid them and invited everyone present into her suite at the Hanged Man after they went for a slight celebratory drink. Merrill blushed, Carver blushed, Varric bullshitted about not being interested and Kenrick laughed and said maybe another time. They had only just met. She also said if she wasn't with a pair of lacy 'panties' on her doorknob, hungover or having more fun she'd be available for some moonlight mercenary work to pay the favour of being able to drop everything in a rush to help her. Seems they'd made more than some coin but a friend with that favour.

Kenrick grinned and shook his head. Dalish blood mage and now Rivaini pirate in their list of associates as well as Aveline and Varric. Things seemed to be on the up as they took lots of jobs, Kenrick drank a lot of smuggled lyrium that Varric procured and they proved themselves to be the tough cookies of Kirkwall - taking the worst of jobs like rooting in sewers and caves for lost dogs and the occasional bounty on criminal. Criminals after criminals - because it made sense.

But the jobs dried up a while and Kenrick sat in his favourite dwarf's suite at the Hanged Man, wondering why anyone would touch the swill when they had a certain thing called 'brandy' that got you much drunker, much quicker and you only ended up spending half the money you would on hoping the swill contained alcohol somewhere.

And Aveline managed to find them a job! Not a full-time one with the guard but a bit of freelancing on the side of her duties. Help. Obviously he wanted to help her after blacklisting Carver - but money was money and the guard was having problems. Maybe if they'd hired someone with bloody integrity.

* * *

Aveline's job ended up showing their complete lack of that bloody integrity. Guards being bribed by officials. And so he became a sort of vigilante crime-fighter for a while. Got Jeven, the current guards-captain fired on the spot and Aveline managed to wangle herself that office and position. She couldn't dare not hire Carver now, especially when it appeared that those jobs they'd pulled and criminals they'd ended up having to kill. Kenrick had been so careful about who his younger brother was associated with. He was cleaner than a whistle. Kenrick took the grime.

Still not to be. So when Athenril threw him a line and sent a smuggling job. Kenrick was in no position to throw it away. He took off with Carver, Varric and Isabela because who else could he trust to do the job properly with any skill? He liked Merrill but this wasn't for her.

And that's how he met Fenris. Smuggling lyrium his arse! The elf with the snow-white hair had it embedded in the scars like tattoos over his body. And he wasn't poor to look at either or listen to. A voice like honey on gravel. Cleared out a mansion owned by a Tevinter Magister who used to own the elf as a slave and a few dozen demons. Quite a nice cache of loot and begrudgingly the elf had decided to do some moonlighting with them too so he could make his way in a city that wasn't hiring elves or Fereldens. Then he claimed the mansion that appeared falling apart and filled with demonic ick as his own.

Going back to his previous thought though, it wasn't that the Tevene fugitive was Ferelden but no-one hired an elf - as Merrill had found. He was the only person offering anything in the way of coin to both Merrill and Fenris and that was because they both would troupe themselves with him.

Fenris wasn't the biggest fan of mages. Not many people where. In all honesty Kenrick was more that used to the sentiment so after Carver had scared the shit out of him to not to turn Kenrick into the templars because of his forswearing of killing anything other than darkspawn and demons by magic. The elf had managed to respect that and even managed a weak smile about the thought of a mage that wasn't mental. Oh joys for having the two elves he associated with meeting.

They tested out that trust when Varric had a magistrate throw them a bone with a criminal, a murderer holed up in a cave on the Wounded Coast where surprise surprise - the guard hadn't been able to do the job.

Because of giant spiders. Pansy guards. As they delved into the ruins, Fenris, Varric, Isabela, Carver and himself they found the criminal was in fact a kidnapper who took elven girls and slaughtered them like cattle. It ended now if Kenrick had to stick a knife in the man's kidneys himself. They were only being paid for bringing the criminal back but why go to a milkman when you had a cow?

Then it turned out the murderer was none other than the same magistrate's son and he did it because 'the demons told him so'. Not even a mage and giving good apostates a terrible wrap. He asked them to kill him. Kenrick cracked his knuckles, hating the idea of killing even this murderer not sitting right with him when faced with the man, so Fenris had activated the lyrium in his skin and shifted into the dimension of the Fade to ghost his gauntlet through the murderers chest. It gave Kenrick chills watching when Fenris did it, the pain etched on his face but the satisfaction of ending a vile man winning it out.

Needless to say the magistrate wasn't a happy bunny to find out his son had swerved the legal system rigged by his father. Kenrick cracked his knuckles all the way out of the spider infested cave and back to the magistrate. Even Varric told him to stop.

* * *

It had only been three months by that time, three to go until their arses were literally on fire when Bartrand wouldn't even think of having them as partners when Varric might have mentioned he had a few tricks up his sleeve that he'd been hiding. And a secret. Bartrand didn't even have a good entrance into the Deep Roads.

They weren't doing too badly with their saving up of coin, he and Carver hiding the spare bits and silvers in a sock under the floorboards and taking them to the 'bureau de change' when they equalled a sovereign or more so it took up less space. Neither had told mother where the coin was coming from that put food on the table. She likely assumed Kenrick was still smuggling and taking his little brother around on job-hunts during the day. So maybe getting a map to a good entrance into the Deep Roads might have been an idea. It'd make them much more appealing partners to Bartrand.

And it just so happened there was a Ferelden Grey Warden in the city that came in with the latest wave of refugees from Ferelden. These from the Arling of Amaranthine if he recognised the new accent amongst the job-hunters that lined the lowtown streets early in the mornings. Grey Wardens would have maps to the Deep Roads and experience with the monsters that even the two refugees that fought their way through a horde of them out of Lothering couldn't even manage. Next task - find that Warden, pick their brains and pick up their maps via any means possible.

That had been a task in itself. First they'd gone the obvious way to find any Ferelden because every Ferelden refugee went to Lirene's Ferelden Imports and Shelter when they first arrived if they couldn't find a place to live or food to eat. It was a shop too - for those that could afford something reminiscent of home in a strange foreign country like The Free Marches. Kenrick remembered his first pay from Athenril being spent on sugar pigs and black pudding. Mother and Carver loved it and Carver paid for the rest of the months meagre portions of food. But those little treats had been Maker-sent, really carried the smaller family in those dark days.

Lirene knew the Hawkes, knew Kenrick in particular for his panache when it came to healing. That was something strange too - she hadn't knocked on the door late at night with a woman in difficult labour or a boy fallen and broken his leg in a long time. She'd been the saint of hiding Kenrick from templars, passing him off as a mere midwife as he subtly used the tiniest bit of magic to numb pain or send them into a sleepy daze to pass the time as he stitched and helped babies into the world. It had been a small bit of coin on the side too, to buy items outside their pay-packet that wasn't going toward paying Athenril back her bribe of getting them into Kirkwall.

So she wasn't so secretive over who this Warden was. A healer - obviously a mage as she used the same codeword of 'purveyor of leeches and hemsbane' that had set up himself in the slums of Darktown. Who gave free treatment to the people so desperate down there that they lived in their own refuse. It could have been where the Hawkes could have lived if not for the 'generosity' of Uncle Gamlen and his hovel. How the rat dragged through a hedge backwards had looked after himself beforehand had been a complete mystery to the Hawke family.

But the sounds of this Warden. Tell him he had a great sense of humour and deep soulful eyes and he'd be in love! What a delightful sounding person! Kenrick quickly asked Lirene how they'd garner this healer's attention and she indicated that he had a lantern over his door when in and that his name was Anders.

They had their man then. Their mage. Their maps... drat it he got confused. Maps, man... mage - whatever they had something. Varric, sneaky little archer had winked to Lirene as they left the shop and Carver bought a stick of Denerim taffy for mother.

Then of course some well-wishing citizens wanted to make sure this Anders was protected for what he was doing. Carver went to say something when Kenrick stepped up with a - "How's the newborn Haygan?" The group leader backed down and whispered something to the brute with a maul that they weren't going to do anything to this Anders that was unpleasant. They were on their way quickly after that to Darktown.

And wasn't that a picnic on the beach? He'd been through the sewer tunnels before, got covered in Maker-knows what but he didn't falling over in a puddle and all to deliver forged sovereigns to some Orlesian prick Athenril was playing both ways. Darktown seemed worse with more people in it. All smoke, grim sooty faces, faeces, urine and haunted eyes watching them at all times.

But in those winding corridors filled with people in lean-to shacks where they walked straighter and proudly to remain as figures that shouldn't be touched, they eventually found the lit lantern like a beacon over the gloom and stepped into a world slightly cleaner, smelling of medicinal elfroot, the buzz of lyrium in the air and of simple warmth from an empty drum of oil with burning something within.

A man in feathered robes was bent over a boy no more than five, his leg at an odd angle and writhing in pain, restrained by either his mother or elder sister as the feathered blond manipulated bones with glowing blue hands. Kenrick smiled at the show of another apostate showing that there was good in mages. Eventually the healing was over for the weakened boy, gathered up in mother/sister arms when the mage refused a fee for his services and slumped into a cot. It almost made the apostate feel bad for having accepted small fees when Lirene turned to his healing talents.

Kenrick moved up slowly and the blond mage was up like a shot despite his obvious tiredness, to what looked to be a pole having been left against the wall but now a stave. There was a flash of blue light that fizzed in the air and Kenrick felt a void opening up in the pressure around the room. Immediately to stop the apostate thinking he'd brought an undercover templar in Carver along, he shot his hand out with a burst of healing magic of his own and muttered that no apostate would turn another in with those sorts of risks.

It was a wary start, fraught with worry that it might not work. But then again most things in his life were like that. Eventually Anders smiled softly and said he'd give up the Deep Roads maps for a favour - help him spring a mage friend of his from the circle. They'd be meeting in the Chantry to avoid detection but should danger arise he'd need well meaning mundanes to help. Kenrick smiled back and the deal was forged.

He mentally added the name Anders to his list of mages he'd ask if they wanted to run away to Tevinter with him if the fellow healer could part his services from the needy of Darktown that was.

* * *

Anders met them outside the Chantry at midnight exact according to the great clock on the tower over the Viscounts Keep. With him, disguises. A Chantry Sister robe for Isabela, Carver and Kenrick would dress as Chantry Brothers alongside Anders. Somehow he'd known not to bring his non-human friends for this one. Isabela laughed at the robe and nearly refused to wear it until he pleaded ever so nicely with her and promised as much ale as she could chug for half an hour and a free poultice whenever she needed it - no questions asked. If that wasn't worth something then he was penniless.

So they dressed up and Anders remarked how similarly he'd resembled a fellow mage, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden and The Hero of Ferelden to boot more than his own brother. Kenrick shrugged, Iorwen Amell was his cousin in a distant way considering they'd never met - the slayer of the Archdemon though. His haircut may have been slightly girlie though so Carver laughed about it and called him to quote 'a pussy' unquote. Being called reminiscent of a hero sounded fairly nice though.

The mage friend of Anders, Karl Thekla wasn't the mage he'd been before though. Tranquil puppet of the templars. Shit on a stick they'd been surrounded.

Isabela drew her daggers and Carver - how he'd hidden the greatsword beneath the robes Maker knew - but they all pitched in when the templars had them surrounded. Kenrick cracked his knuckles and drew his sword. Magic wasn't to kill even these men.

But they were just a little slow off the mark as Anders dropped to the floor as if he'd lost control of his body, smoke as dark as the Void itself and iridescent blue flame surrounding the healer and he bellowed in an otherworldly voice that no mage would ever become like Karl again. The templars didn't have time to react and neither did Kenrick, Carver or Isabela when they were engulfed in those blue flames, dying almost instantaneously to them. The three knocked back into the pews like ragdolls.

Kenrick looked up from where he'd been knocked to the floor to see Anders looking at his hands like they were alien to him, skin cracked red-raw about the edges where brilliant blue light shone through. His eyes though. Like portholes into the Fade and the energy positively crackled around him. It was the tranquil Karl that brought whatever possessed Anders back, his emotions brought back momentarily through something Anders did then.

Anders did as Karl asked and gave him peace as a mage - not a tranquil and stabbed him in the gut as it faded from his eyes, growing lifeless, a monotone settling back on his voice once more. The dagger in the gut sent Anders sobbing as the charred remains of templar were swept into the growing ashes labelled 'unknown refugees' - the melted metal swept into a storeroom.

They were out again into the unforgiving winds of the night and gave Karl a small pyre on the beach of the Wounded Coast. Burned him in the cold of night before taking Anders back to his clinic in Darktown.

As mercenary as it seemed, they needed the maps off the traumatized man.

That was when it became known Anders was possessed in the full term of the word. By a spirit of Justice turned awry in their union. Justice was a hard concept, held no mercy and was so different to the caring man Kenrick had seen heal a grievous leg break only hours before. But all people had a darker side and Anders' personal hatred of templars changed Justice into Vengeance. He gave them the maps and his word that should they ever need him - Anders would be there with all the aide they required.

* * *

It was that band of misfits that started calling Kenrick simply by Hawke. It caught on too, even Carver was caught out once. That and Varric never called anyone by their real name. Merrill had quickly become Daisy for the time she'd been found laying on the grass on the outskirts of the city by one of Varric's urchin informants covered in the flowers and threaded in her hair.

Isabela was simply Rivaini - and the pirate liked it, thought it sounded tough.

Fenris - much to his disgruntle became Broody for the sour demeanour that he donned like a cloak against an indifferent world.

Carver got saddled with 'Junior' which wound him up a treat. Kenrick half-wished he'd thought of it on his own as he ruffled his younger brother's jet black hair and got scowled at. Then he remembered his brother's predilection to smiting the living daylights out of his siblings as non-violent payback. Plus only he could rib his brother properly and get away with it.

Aveline refused every nickname Varric threw at the woman but Isabela whispered 'Lady Man-Hands' which became almost a secret nickname for her when the guard-captain was off on patrol and they sat in the Hanged Man, playing cards and looking at the miss-mash of information Varric's urchins had collected as a way of getting them money. The Hanged Man was their base of a sorts.

Anders actually liked his nickname. Blondie. He was the only blond other than Varric himself.

Even the dwarf's crossbow was nicknamed. Bianca. No matter how drunk that dwarf could get the story never got told on how that particular name caught his fancy. And Varric even once pranked them all by bullshitting a different story to each of them on the origins of it. They were scratching their heads the next day wondering if any held any grain of truth or if one had been set with the actual truth. With Varric you never could tell.

* * *

Life rushed past in two months. Rescuing the Viscount's son from Qunari/The Winters mercenary band depending on how you saw it was interesting and lucrative.

As was saving The Bone Pit - a mineral mining business Kenrick slipped over into mother's name.

Things got a bit pear shaped about rescuing templar recruits and trying to solve murders involving an Orlesian woman named Ninette but life worked out, still chugging, the old use of a sword rather than magic worked well and people were silenced by booze, cheap whores and Varric being the master-class bullshitter of the year. Nay - Age!

They even found out the Amell Estate - once lost in a game of dice by dear sweet Uncle Gamlen was infested with slavers and still had the original will inside. Needless to say the entire misfit group went in and no slavers came out. Kenrick kept back with his devastating, nasty little hexes and healing, Anders crashed around with his Arcane spells and even more healing for when 'Hawke' as he'd been dubbed couldn't catch it in time. Merrill threw lightning and stone around like it was as natural as breathing, vines leaping from floorboards to pin slavers down so Fenris would run them through with his greatsword, Carver would charge them and got a good smite on a mage slaver inhabiting the estate, Isabela carried around like the wind and stabbed like her life depended on it and good old Varric was back alongside the mages - arrows raining death about him.

He still never killed with magic. He would not do it as long as he lived.

Interesting things were learned that day, lots of coin gained, wonderful boots of course. Carver had been named after a templar (what fate!) and the will of Grandmama and Grandpapa Amell left the family estate to Leandra and all heirs of her. What a show for the books. It just showed you could run off with an apostate, shame the family, have it dragged further in the dirt by Aunt Revka dying in childbirth to give birth to yet another mage - Iorwen Amell managed to do well from that start in life - and still be higher in the pecking order than Gamlen.

Boy was their Uncle pissed when they thrust the will under his nose in front of mother. She took what coin Kenrick retrieved for her to buy something fitting of a genteel again and petition Viscount Dumar (who liked the Hawkes for rescuing his son?) to give them back the estate.

The Deep Roads expedition would be needed now more than ever. They had a goal. Get that estate back for mother as her rightful inheritance. The coin hopefully earned in the venture would grease the way for the paperwork to be done in a flash and help do up what damage they'd caused. They caused a lot.

* * *

The last month, having got the coin for Bartrand, handed over the maps and said coin and cementing their way in was waiting and getting coin for mother to live on. They might be gone a long time truth be told. It could be a month, it could be two or three depending. So money for her to live on.

They were less careful, they had their goal in sight. Rubbed the Arishok - the leader of the Qunari just sitting in the docks the wrong way by killing Tal'Vasoth - 'bad Qunari' - for a dwarf called Javaris Tintop so he could get his hands on Gaatlok - exploding black powder, the wrong way. Coin aplenty and respect from the giant. But still rubbed him the wrong way. Found out Fenris spoke Qun though and not all surface dwarves knew each other. That was just weird though. They were more than happy though about the coin and went drinking that night.

Now Kenrick wished that was all the things he did with the Qunari but alas it wasn't to be. Sister -lying- Petrice got involved. Posed as a hapless victim to gang-crime where really they shouldn't have gotten involved either. She wanted sacrifices for want of a better word. To ferry a Qunari mage out of the city for his safety as she put it but in truth to die as 'poor human victims of Qunari blasphemy'.

Kenrick was disgusted and happy at the prospect. Freedom for the mage - good. The state he was in - very bad. Lips sewn shut and scarred over. A metal mask almost melded to his face. Horns cut (according to Fenris this made them scarier in the Qunari way - no clue why though) and he was still chained up like a dangerous animal. It sobered him immensely and Kenrick looked at the templar Sister-lying-Petrice had in her back pocket and cracked his knuckles. The friends he had alongside him winced at the habit.

Obviously they took the mage she named 'Ketojan' out. No better plan arose plus money for mother. They were ambushed by spiders as they crawled beneath the city in the tunnels. Not house-spiders or money-spiders but honking huge ones that could probably eat a man.

Then ambushed by Qunari thinking that they had killed this 'Saarebas's 'Karataam' or words that sounded like that. Qunari templar-styled fanatics that made templars look sane slaughtered and Ketojan killed himself, speaking for the first time in his life after just listening to words. Killed because he'd rather live Qunari than Tal'Vasoth even if it meant his death. Or fucked up shit to that effect.

Kenrick back-pedalled and did Kirkwall a favour alongside Carver, Anders, Fenris, Varric and Merrill in ending Sister Petrice and her templar pet Varnell there and then after they'd told their dastardly plans like the story-book villains they were. No doubt the three apostates in the group would've found nooses around their necks in the figurative sense as they were taken to Kirkwall's circle. The Gallows. Names were so apt in Kirkwall.

They also had a dog now. Found wounded on the Wounded Coast during an 'off day' with a picnic of cheese, wine and grainy bread. A mabari like the one Carver had tattooed on his arse except this one was prettier to look at. Merrill ended up naming the bitch after a clansmate she'd loved and lost. Larena Mahariel. No wonder she'd not paid attentions to Carver! It was named Mahariel though. In honour of a Dalish elf that apparently could 'shoot an arrow so straight and true the animals hunted surely didn't remember death'.

The last thing he did before they started packing for the expedition was something close to his heart and not for profit in the slightest. He'd gone down to the Alienage with Anders, Isabela and Varric, meeting up with Merrill to see about getting something to fix a hole in her wall where rats were getting in. Carver had been packing already and getting blustered and arguing with mother since she'd known about the Deep Roads treasure hunt. Kenrick was glad to get out of it for a moment to be honest.

They were in the Alienage and he quickly slammed himself and Anders into an alleyway as he caught sight of a red-haired templar questioning a Dalish elf if the accent and facial tattoos were anything to go by. The two mages watched the exchange in silence, and Kenrick was sure to make Anders keep back in case of Justice rearing his glowy blue eyes at the exchange while Isabela and Varric were nosy as usual - actually whistling as they went across the square to Merrill's pokey house - very obvious in their eavesdropping. "Her son is a mage. Shit that could be mother if I'm not careful." He breathed. Anders put a hand on his shoulder.

"No happening Hawke, for one they'd have to get through Carver, me and I'm sure Varric, Isabela and even Merrill would be standing by your side too. No templar will touch a single stubble on your chin."

"You say the sweetest things Anders." Kenrick snorted back, cracking his knuckles when the templar had passed out of the Alienage and well out of earshot. "Think it'd be something we can do - find this lost son of hers and make sure he knows how to scrub a life out with magic?"

"I'd follow you to the ends of Thedas to try." Anders smiled warmly. "Just stop with the knuckle cracking."

"It's not bad for me." Kenrick pouted dramatically, twitching one hand over his knuckles in mock-crack.

"But it is annoying." Anders rolled his hazel eyes.

Varric whistled when the two groups of two met back up and Merrill skipped over to the Dalish woman, speaking in quick-fire elvish. Turned out that her son, Fenyriel was indeed a mage and not just accused of such and she'd thought with the terrible nightmares he'd had in the Fade it might be safer to pack him off to the Gallows. Great, so the templars actually knew about the boy before he'd gone missing.

So they had a choice. Pretend they were moonlighting for the templars and sneak the information the templars had on the boy straight out from under their noses or possibly find the boy's human father - an Antivan merchant who the boy had recently gotten in touch with. Merchant it was. Varric knew the guy and Isabela knew the stocks of brandy he sold.

They found him, initially he denied having any son, let along a half-elven son or mage son - until Kenrick put himself on the line and held his jacket open and put his hand inside the darkness within, lighting up a small pulse of healing over a bruise there that didn't need it but magic tended to like somewhere to discharge. He told them he'd sent Feynriel to an ex-templar that helped apostates for a price because he missed his lyrium fix. Meet the ex-templar by the foundry steps at night and Samson would reveal himself.

Kenrick was bloody suspicious but he had Isabela, Varric, Merrill and Anders all willing to stick their necks out too. Anders repeated his line on not letting templars get a hold of the apostate friend of theirs. He was so thankful for the people he'd met in Kirkwall opposed to the city itself. Maybe he'd invite them all to Tevinter. Free slaves and take down Magisters. Even Fenris would like that he thought - if Fenris even wanted to ally himself with the apostate much longer. Somehow Kenrick doubted it but the elf was warming up to him if such a thing were possible. Mutual respect helped a lot.

Samson was another piece of shit. By the sounds of it - Fenyriel was going to halfway to Tevinter as a slave. Kenrick gave the templar one of the best left hooks he could and put him to sleep with a bottle of piss-ale down his front and a pouch of lyrium in his pocket. Because safety rather than getting turned in. They didn't expose their magic but if Samson had two brain cells he'd remember their faces and know they had apostate connections or were apostates. The lyrium dust he'd get for it would be more than worth it. In reversed situations Kenrick knew what he'd do.

Abomination daughter of a templar called Ser Thrask killed later, grab Fenris seeing as the slavers might have connections to his previous Magister master to smoke the blood mage out, lyrium imbued hand in slaver with ridiculous name - their bolthold was found. Wounded Coast.

Varric bullshitted like none had bullshitted before. They managed to make the slavers hand over their coin, and the boy then they killed the bastards without mercy and packed the boy off to the Dalish. Apostate saved, evidence of templars erased and all's well that ends well.

Or so he thought.

* * *

It was the night before they'd be setting off for the Deep Roads and the whole group was drinking in Varric's private suite in the Hanged Man. When an urchin ran in with apparent news of templars. The three mages of the group rushed to their feet and into the copper panelled hiding door in the wall.

Varric knocked on it after ten minutes. Wrong idea. The templars heard a man named Hawke (not an apostate funnily enough) was lenient towards apostates and Ser Thrask wanted their help now.

Hawke knew he was a damned fool, so he left Anders and Merrill there with Mahariel to guard them and the mundanes and he rushed off to the location of a cave on the Wounded Coast that Ser Thrask wanted them.

As it turned out, not smoking out the apostate than ran about Kirkwall but trying to stop escaped circle mages from dying. Slighty tipsy they went into the cave to see what they could do when it was already too late.

They'd turned to blood magic and were attacking all who came in. Kenrick concealed the fact he was a mage himself by solely using his sword in one hand and hatchet in the other with the most subtle hexes he'd ever used in case there would be mages worth saving here.

They did find some. After having to kill one called Decimus, partner of one called Grace when he pulled skeletons out of the ground to try and kill them. But Grace and a few others were ready to give themselves up. Kenrick couldn't do it. He advised them on how to scrub a life as apostates - get away from the phylacteries the templars used to track known mages and how to act like mundanes. Varric bullshitted like he'd never done before when the templars did turn up and said the mages were dead - just look at all the blood they had on their clothes!

They returned to Kirkwall in the early-ish hours of the morning. Maker, some of them had to be up bright and early for the expedition. Kenrick crashed on Varric's spare bed with Anders, Mahariel wedged over him like some throw-rug, Merrill curled up into a ball and Isabela crawled into the bed at some point.

He woke with a sore back, Isabela was holding onto his ponytail like it was a cuddly toy, Anders was curled into his front with his lapels in a similar fashion and Mahariel the mabari was in a giant ball with Merrill curled around her - both under his legs. Varric laughed like he'd never seen something so funny and Kenrick cursed the decision not to return home even if it might have meant mother and Carver still shouting at each other.

What a way to wake up though. He daren't look behind him. Balls... he did. Isabela was stark naked to boot.


End file.
